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Short Story - Stall No. 51

This story was submitted for a Writing the City Competition (Dickens 2012: City Dwellers) and won the runner-up prize.


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Stall No. 51

Heavy, heady aromas wafted from various clacking and clicking pots and woks, mingling with one another, forming a complex, pungent, and yet common odour which hung heavily in the air.

It was a typical scene in this city. As the sun sank over the horizon and bright electric lights popped on, tables would fill and lines would form.

Amidst the bustle of this evening, the patrons of Stall No. 51 – Ah Huat Hokkien Noodles – were surprised to see a chap in his early thirties, dressed in a crisp white shirt and an expensive-looking tie that looked like it had come from a luxurious boutique. Leaving his well-groomed lady companion outside the hawker centre, he weaved his way towards Stall No. 51.

“Ah, Auntie Lim’s lawyer son is here again,” the regular patrons murmured to themselves as the smart-looking young man stopped outside Stall No. 51 and began to talk earnestly to the woman behind the counter, who ignored him completely and continued to stir and toss the heavy noodles in her huge wok.

‘Auntie’ was a misnomer for the woman in question seemed to be at least in her seventies, with a head of sparse white hair and a frame so frail that it was a wonder that she could lift the gigantic wok. But in this city, every female who was no longer a girl could be addressed as ‘Auntie’ and no one would raise an eyebrow.

The patrons observed with interest the scene before them. The young man remonstrating with the wilful old woman, his voice and gestures growing increasingly heated as his mother blithely ignored him, continuing to serve her clients serenely.

After about ten minutes, the young man gave up. Sighing in defeat, he placed an envelope on the counter and threaded his way back to his lady friend who was waiting for him.

“It’s rare to see such a filial young man these days,” a patron commented, to the nodding approval of his fellow diners.

As the young man joined the lady, she asked softly, “She still refused? Good grief, why is she so stubborn?”

“I know. Even though I told her I would support her, she refused. Why does she want to do this to herself? The work is hard and she’s not getting any younger. And she never spares a thought for me! Has she ever thought how bad this makes me look in front of my colleagues and partners?” The recollection of his co-workers and partners’ censorious expressions when they had learnt that his mother was working as a hawker fuelled his indignation and he turned back to throw his mother a baleful glare. Why couldn’t she be like other wives or mothers and pursue artistic interests or dabble in charity work instead?

Back at Stall No. 51, Auntie Lim was still serving her patrons, her hands and arms working automatically. There was still a sting, for she could never reconcile this familiar-looking yet foreign young man to the baby who had suckled at her breast. But she had learnt to ignore the hurt and bewilderment.

Cooking Hokkien noodles always helped. Her actions were fluid, and she was like a conductor leading an orchestra as her arms flew and turned and whipped. As she repeated her practised motions, she relived the scenes that had taken place under this very roof decades ago – she as a young girl, helping the original Ah Huat, her father, to serve the patrons; now a young woman who occasionally took over the stove while her ageing father rested; a good-looking young customer (bearing a striking resemblance to her lawyer son) that kept returning day after day; her young clever son doing his homework at one of the empty tables.

Each day that she came to the stall, the past stayed with her and it was like her loved ones had never departed and that was enough.

Teo Cheong Cheong